


The Two Hunters

by theeventualwinner



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:17:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5474177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theeventualwinner/pseuds/theeventualwinner





	The Two Hunters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lunarium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/gifts).



_Happy Christmas, Scribe_of_Mirrormere! These two aren't really my speciality, but I did what I could, and I hope you like them! Best holiday wishes xx_

 

* * *

 

Along the northwestern borders of the forest of Neldoreth they roamed, two hunters clad in earthy brown.

The first was slender, lithe and lean like a sapling come to its first fruition, and like a sylvan sprite he feinted amid the trees. In the dappled, dreary light he wove between gnarled trunks, rowans and oaks and beeches speared their branches up towards the clouded skies and through the fluttering fall of their browned leaves he walked as one fey. And perhaps fey in part he was, the puissance of nature flowed through his veins, for with each sweep of his sharp eyes the forest was laid bare to him, and with each pass of his hand across a bole of wood a tree sighed out its secrets. For there came Beleg Cúthalion, the greatest hunter of his people in all of Arda’s realms, clad in graceful cloth and light leather armour with the grand curve of his bow strapped across his back, and through the great leagues of trees he walked without fear.

Some paces behind him another elf strode, taller and bulkier in build, and as a dim ray of light filtered down through the trees as he stalked amid them it revealed a face both hard and gentle, weathered by the passing of time and yet not so. A knotted scar puckered over his throat where his hood was cast back, it curved up over his jaw before fading away into unmarred skin, and as he skirted the roots of an ancient oak tree, his fingers absently traced over its run. Quietly he walked through the crunching leaves, he followed Beleg’s silent path with cunning enough to leave only the faintest of treads, yet the strength of Mablung Heavy-Hand was not in stealth. Nay, it lay in the immense warhammer that was holstered across his back; a brute, terrible thing of dwarf-forged iron, a scourge of all evil that dared to encroach upon his lord and lady’s realm. 

He had cloven it clean through the skulls of Morgoth’s foul servants; countless had fallen in his ceaseless defence of Doriath’s borders, yet heavily he bore the marks of such loyal service. The scar across his throat was but one of many, a chance blow against unlucky odds, and once more he rubbed at it as he glanced to Beleg’s form some metres before him.

Against a bent rowan tree his partner was leant, peering intently at something upon its bark, and as Mablung approached he heard his friend softly sigh. Beleg’s half-gloved fingers swept over something carved into the tree’s trunk, gashed there amid the wood like a wound left to fester, and as Mablung sighted it his stomach turned in disgust. For a foul insignia there was left amid the smooth bark of the tree; a slanted, piercing eye that seemed to glare out its hatred even when so rudely carved, and congealed sap glistened like ruddy tears upon the exposed wood beneath. 

“Morgoth’s reach grows far indeed,” Beleg murmured; his eyes closed for a short moment as he seemed to listen for something amid the quiet air, but then they opened again, and softly he continued, “His servants injure all in their path.” 

“The Red Eye is an ill-omen,” Mablung said gravely, and loathsomely he looked upon that vile insignia. “For it is the mark of the lieutenant, and not the lord, and Gorthaur’s arrogance has grown galling indeed if he thinks that his foul companies may pass here freely.” 

“They should not have passed at all,” Beleg replied sharply, and quickly he stood, his eyes scanning the leaf-litter for any sign of a trail amid the wetted soil. “The Girdle of Melian is laid down yet, and even here upon its borders it should ward evil things from this land.” 

At that Mablung sighed, and as Beleg crouched and prodded amid the rowan’s branching roots, he intoned, “The lady Melian is wise and powerful, but as Morgoth’s evil waxes, all goodly powers wane.” 

An irritable, dismissive noise flickered out of Beleg’s throat, yet finding no sign of his quarry he stood once more, and beckoning to Mablung set out into the trees once more, his eyes kept sharp amid the gloom and shadows of the forest. The mark was not fresh, that much he knew, but neither had it grown stale, and deftly he searched for any remnant of the defilers’ passing. 

“There are ill rumours, Beleg,” Mablung continued, trudging after his partner, though for all his apparent unwariness still his ears strained for any unnatural disturbances of sound beneath the deadfall of leaves. “Perhaps they have not reached you on the Marches here, but I have spoken at length with Curiel of the Whispering Fell, and Oropher and his princely folk upon the eastern banks of the Aros. The lord Thingol’s mood grows cold, the nights fall without stars, and there is nothing but fire upon the northern horizon. The fate of the Silmaril weighs heavy upon the lord’s thoughts, and-” 

“Spoor!” Beleg called from where he walked not three paces ahead, and with a grumble of displeasure Mablung hurriedly skirted the half-concealed pile of deer droppings that cluttered upon the trail. 

“I am not a child,” Mablung scowled, yet the wan smile that flashed over Beleg’s shoulder quickly drove the ire from his heart. For a few minutes more they carried onwards in silence, until at last they rounded the trunk of a moss-stained oak tree, and Mablung at last intoned, “Though you should heed my counsel, whether you wish it or not.” 

At that Beleg paused, and a sombre light illumined his eyes as Mablung drew abreast with him. The forest stretched on before them, and amid the drift of falling leaves they stood awhile, silent and in thought, before Beleg roused himself once more. 

“I am sorry, my friend,” he said slowly, and sorrowfully then he looked to Mablung. “I did not mean to check counsel with frivolity. The orcs’ trail grows cold beneath the trees, and dread simmers in my heart to think of what this may portend. Their companies should not wander here with impunity, and yet these have done so, and evidence of their trail is vanished from my sight. The forest grows wary, full of anger and mistrust; the thoughts of the trees wind in stranger paths than even I can follow…” 

A maudlin air seemed to grip him then, for once more he looked out upon the forest, and quietly said, “Dor-lormin is overrun, and its houseless wards turn to us for aid. The leaguer of the sons of Fëanor is as tatters upon on the wind, and orcs flood down the Sirion, burning as they go… It seems the whole world has come to evil.” 

“It has not,” Mablung replied firmly; for though he shared his friend’s grievances he would not succumb to them, and he drew himself up to his full height as he proclaimed, “Not while goodly folk still defend it, and there is a strength in us left yet to shake Morgoth from his iron throne. Come, Strongbow, do not give in to despair, nor let your brave heart stray. There is courage yet left in this world, and the will to resist those who would see us broken.” 

Doughtily then Mablung clapped Beleg upon the shoulder, and the grim, determined smile that curved then over Beleg’s face brought some small ease to Mablung’s heart. Fiercely then Beleg stepped forward, with a savage glint in his eyes he scanned the forest once more, and with Mablung’s steady presence at his side they both continued their hunt beneath the silent trees. Long wore the hours, and until the daylight failed them they laboured, and of what fresh hope or despair the new morning brought this tale does not tell.


End file.
